


all the ashes in my way

by noiselesspatientspider



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dialogue Heavy, Drug Use, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noiselesspatientspider/pseuds/noiselesspatientspider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets high. John gets out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John and Sherlock have been living in Baker Street for nearly a year when John comes home one evening to find his flatmate high out of his mind.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock says. He drapes over the couch like a human afghan; no one’s spine should bend that way. There is a needle sticking out of his wrist. When he swings his arms wide in welcome, it clatters to the floor with the particular click of bones swinging together.

“What in the _fuck_ , Sherlock,” John says.

Sherlock peers after the needle. “I appear to have injected quite a lot of cocaine.” He looks up at John and beams. “It’s alright, though. You’re here.”

His pupils look like bullet holes, vast and deep and black. John decides that he can be royally pissed tomorrow, but today he needs to keep Sherlock from choking on his own vomit. He presses two fingers to Sherlock’s neck. His pulse is regular, if elevated, but Sherlock is burning up.

“We need to lower your temperature, Sherlock. You’re really hot.”

Sherlock waggles his fucking _eyebrows_ , and John is really, really going to need to have a conversation with him about timing. And propriety. “Yes,” he says, his voice bedrock. “You’ve never noticed before, though.”

“Goddammit, Sherlock,” John says. He goes to scoop Sherlock up, because no one with limbs that floppy is going to be able to walk, but the man has other ideas, and John finds himself suddenly on top of him. With a very insistent erection pressing into his hip.

“Oh. My god.”

“Precisely what I was going to say,” Sherlock murmurs, thrusting slightly upwards, “but you anticipated me by about ten minutes.”

“Sherlock, we’re not, this isn’t,“ John sputters, trying to get up. The man is a furnace.

Sherlock blinks once, twice. John wonders if he can actually see anything at all. “Of course not,” he says, something sliding off his face. “You’re not gay.” He sits up in one fluid motion, shoving John off of him. “Foolish of me,” he adds, “but rest assured it won’t happen again.”

“Sherlock, it was probably just the cocaine, don’t worry about. It doesn’t mean anything.” John finds himself trying to be reassuring, which is ridiculous, considering he’d like nothing more than to tie Sherlock up and scream at him for an hour. His hands flutter up, then fall back to his sides.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says, looking at the carpet as if he could divine the secrets of the universe in its fibers. “Doesn’t mean anything. Just the cocaine.” His leg begins to tremble.

“Sherlock? Look, we need to get your temperature down, okay?” John says. “Can you walk?”

Sherlock snorts and stands up, only to wobble violently. “I may- require some assistance.” He clenches his jaw, and all the tendons in his jaw stand out. They look like violin strings, John thinks suddenly. He can see Sherlock’s heartbeat.

They make it to the bathroom, where Sherlock is violently sick into the sink. He looks up, fists dancing along the sink, and John feels something settle, ugly, into his gut. Sherlock is shuddering all over now, his fingers trembling at the buttons of his shirt, so John helps him out of it and sits him down on the toilet. He runs a flannel over the abortive wings of Sherlock’s shoulders, absently noting the way his skin glistens in the harsh blue light. He is seized by a brief desire to run his hands over those planes, and is immediately disgusted with himself.

Sherlock is murmuring something under his breath, fists clenching and unclenching. It sounds like a litany, until John hears his name and listens a little closer.

“Stupidstupidstupid, how could you let him see, how could you make John take care of you, not like this, not like this, you fucking disaster, he’s going to leave,” a torrent of vitriol splashing all over Sherlock’s long bare toes.

“Hey,” John says, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m not going to leave, not right now anyway- Sherlock, stop,” he adds quickly, grabbing his wrist, because Sherlock’s seized his hair in his fists and is trying to yank it out.

He twists to look up at him, black curls falling sweaty over his forehead. Sherlock is wearing an expression John has only seen once before, in Afghanistan. “You can’t go,” Sherlock says. “Please don’t go.”

“Sherlock, I’m not leaving you,” John says. They can talk about Sherlock using cocaine as a bargaining chip when he’s not currently high off his mind. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“Don’t be anywhere else.”

John swallows, trying to keep his face blank. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m here,” he repeats, running his thumb over Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and he hums.

“Oookay,” John says, yanking his hand away and definitely not thinking about that hum in any other context, “you need to sleep.”

He rummages through the medicine cabinet. “I’m going to give you two paracetamol to keep you from overheating, Sherlock. Can you swallow?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. His voice is raspier than usual, bile tearing at the silk.

Sherlock takes the pills, tilting his head back to drink. John tears his eyes away from the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows and instead concentrates on slowly and meticulously retightening the cap on the paracetamol bottle.

They make it to Sherlock’s bedroom with relatively little incident. John refuses to remove Sherlock’s trousers, but does help him with his shoes. He rolls him onto the bed and stands up to leave, stopping at the doorway. Sherlock is muttering into his pillow again, and John isn’t trying to listen, doesn’t mean to hear, but his stupid traitorous ears were always too good when he didn’t mean them to be. He and Harry used to joke about it; as children, she’d tug on his “radar ears,” trying to make them stand out like their father’s did. But Sherlock is saying his name again: “mustn’t tell mustn’t let on love him love John god you idiot”

John steps out into the hallway, closes the door, and proceeds to quietly freak the fuck out. He thinks of Sherlock slowly dismantling his dates, of Sherlock grinning at him over takeout. Of Sherlock never, ever correcting the barista, or hotel clerks, or Angelo. Of Sherlock calling him “luminous,” his eyes like soap bubbles, shimmering, ephemeral. Of Sherlock’s face when he came in the door, that simple certainty.

“Fuck,” he says, once, very quietly. He lets his head hit the wall. Sherlock is too far gone to hear such a subtle sound at this point anyway. “Fuck,” he says once more, for good measure.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock is utterly put together the next morning, his hair falling perfectly around his ears, his shirt disappearing into his trousers as if sewn in place, despite vigorous hand-waving and abuse of furniture. He is also prickly and ruder than John has seen him in months, a performance of the Sherlock Holmes Lestrade hates and John tries not to put in his blog. John endures six comments about his personal appearance and four disparaging the way he makes tea, his eating habits, and the sound of his breathing before deciding that enough is enough.

“We need to talk about last night,” he says, carrying a piece of toast into the living room. 

“No, we don’t.” Sherlock flaps his hand dismissively from the kitchen table, where he’s hunched over a human foot. 

“Sherlock– “ John squares his shoulders, juts his chin out.

“We really don’t, John. Spare me your tedious heterosexuality. You’re flattered by my interest, but you’re ‘really not gay.’ Believe me, I know. You remind me any time anyone so much as blinks twice at us.”

“That’s not actually– “

“It is what you want to talk about. You’ve retreated into military posture, which you only do when you feel someone is belittling you, or there’s a physical threat. Most often, when your masculinity is at risk. Despite what you may have said that first night, you do feel threatened when people assume you’re gay, perhaps as a consequence of watching your parents disown your sister as soon as she entered uni. You’ve squared your stance and dropped your hands to your sides. I had an erection last night. Conclusion: you’re uncomfortable with it and want assurance that I’m not going to molest you in your sleep.” Sherlock spits the words out, lingering on the sibilants in his last sentence.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John shouts. He smooths his hands over his shirt, takes a few breaths. Keep it together, Watson.

“Am I wrong?” Sherlock finally looks up from his foot, and his eyes are all grey challenge.

“Yes, yes, as a matter of fact, you are.” John swallows. “I don’t actually give a shit about that, Sherlock. I know I bring home a lot of women, but I was in the army, alright, I can actually deal with men being aroused in my presence without resorting to hate crimes.” He licks his lips. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, alright? I can’t– Sherlock, I’ve gone through enough with Harry. I can’t live with an addict. It’s not– I just can’t.”

“Ah, it’s not your heterosexuality that’s offended, it’s your morals. Tedious,” Sherlock scoffs.

John slams his fist on his end of the table. The foot bounces, splatting in its metal tray. “Is it really so hard to believe, after months of running around after your careless arse, that I actually care about your safety?”

“My safety, doctor?” Sherlock drawls. “I’m touched.”

“You colossal prick, why couldn’t you just tell me?”

“John, you have many talents, but I think that substitute for cocaine isn’t one of –” Sherlock looks up, scans him, his eyes cold and silver. “Oh,” he says softly, his face hardening. “This _isn’t_ about the cocaine, is it? My dear John, what have you overheard?”

John backs up, Sherlock looming over him like a bloody bird of prey. His tongue makes an abortive little foray across his lips.

“What did you hear?” Sherlock growls. “What did I say?”

John hits the couch and decides that retreat is no longer a viable strategy. With your shield or on it, Watson, he thinks. “You asked me not to leave.”

Sherlock tightens his hands around John’s shoulders. His eyes are lodestones. “I’ve demanded your presence hundreds of times before and it’s never bothered you. _What did I say._ ”

John’s eyes flicker towards the door. John Watson wants a lot of things. He wants a crisper free of human or animal remains. He wants to save people. He wants to twist away from Sherlock’s grasp and run until his leg gives out. He wants to barricade the entrance to his room and hunker down until the storm blows over. He wants to never, ever have this conversation.

It looks like he may get his wish, because Sherlock suddenly flies backwards as if he’s been struck. His eyes meet John’s, and flash of panic before a deadly calm chokes everything else from his features. “Tell me I didn’t, John,” he says, completely devoid of expression.

John briefly considers playing the fool, but it would gain him maybe 30 seconds. Sherlock has so little patience with fools. “You didn’t. I– you were muttering into your pillow. I don’t think you were even aware of what you were doing.”

“Right,” says Sherlock, very very calmly. “John, there is only one course of action. You have to delete it.”

John scrubs his palms over his face. “No,” he says.

“No?” Sherlock asks, tilting his head to the side. “John, surely even you can see that this is the logical way out.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times that I can’t delete things. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.” He thinks of Sherlock’s face when he’d said “colleague” and a cold knot of guilt settles into his breastbone. “I should’ve figured out sooner, honestly. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I wish I’d been more sensitive. It shouldn’t have bothered me so much, when people assumed that we were– I mean, it’s not– that must have really hurt you.”

A line coalesces between Sherlock’s eyebrows, and his nostrils flare. “Let me relieve you of the misconception that the idea of your shamming a relationship with me could possibly be anything other than repugnant.”

Ah, not so calm then. Sherlock’s syntax always gets hopelessly involved when he’s furious and trying not to show it. “God, Sherlock, no. I just meant I should have been less bothered about what other people thought.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered!” Sherlock roars. John’s seen him manic, all jitters and clues and facts, a blaze of information, but he’s never seen this uncontrolled rage, and he’s not entirely sure who Sherlock’s even mad at. “You were never supposed to know. It was fine. We were fine. Nothing has to change.” He won’t meet John’s eyes.

“It wasn’t fine, Sherlock!” John’s leg trembles, just a tiny bit, and he slams his fist onto the arm of the couch to cover it. “Jesus, you were hurting, and I was making it worse. Fuck that. That is not fine.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick to his knee. So much for hiding. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I was fine with it.”

“Clearly, you weren’t! I found you strung out on cocaine, for Christ’s sake. Do you know what would happen if Lestrade found out about that?”

Sherlock’s lip curls into a snarl. “You wouldn’t.”

“I will, Sherlock, if it happens again. You can’t just–”

Sherlock finally locks eyes with him, and it’s electric, it’s like being set on fire, it’s like bombs and shrapnel and that strange amber silence when the dust gets into your brain and everything moves in inches, seconds. It’s war, and then it’s over, because Sherlock is leaning over him, spitting venom.

“I can’t what? I don’t recall your being appointed my keeper, John Watson.”

“I don’t know if it’s missed your colossal brain, you prick, but this affects me too! You can’t just make decisions and expect me to go along with them.”

Sherlock throws up his hands. “My deepest apologies for having inconvenienced you with my affections! Remind me to keep them to myself next time. Oh, that’s right, I was!”

John grabs Sherlock’s posh lapels, ignoring the fact that he was probably crushing four hundred pounds in his fists. “You were on cocaine. In our flat. You were high out of your fucking mind right here on this couch. You knelt there on the bathroom floor and you begged, you begged me not to leave you. And you’re angry with me now because I accidentally overheard you mumbling into your pillow? Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes, how dare--”

And then he’s not saying anything anymore, because Sherlock has surged forward and is kissing him wildly, recklessly, all teeth and long grasping arms.

John punches him.

Sherlock stumbles back, one pale hand up against his already reddening jaw. His pupils are almost larger than they were last night. “I’m not sorry,” he says.

John grabs his coat. Just before opening the door, he pauses. There’s nothing to say. There’s not even anywhere to go; Sarah has long ago shown him the door. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, whether it’s apology or abuse.

In the end, he pulls courtesy over him like a worn-out coat. “Goodbye, Sherlock,” he says, pulling the door closed behind him. The latch clicks. He half-runs down the stairs, where the rush of London traffic swallows up any other sound. It is like a baptism, or like being drowned.

**Author's Note:**

> in which I write 2000 words of non-s3 compliant dialogue, and then post it a year later.


End file.
